Lest We Forget

We moved in July.

After years of saying "We need to move to the country. Let's make a plan to get out of here." ... we actually did it.

We met with our realtor, who said we needed to do some painting, some decluttering, and put in a new driveway. We did it. We worked so very, very, very hard to perfect our house so we could capitalize on its value and launch out of it.

The stager came in, twisting furniture, moving lamps, complimenting my style (she was probably just being polite). 

It was so beautiful. Every room felt just the way I wanted it to. Leaving suddenly felt unimagineable.

But far way, on a hill in Michigan, waited an old farmhouse. It needed a new roof, gallons of paint, and general love. It needed kids! Pets. Energy.

So on July 23, after a severe storm knocked out power to our whole neighborhood, a crew of close friends came over to help us load up the big yellow moving truck. Mom and Dad were there. Jake and Britney. Sarah and Marc. Peder and Melisa. Heather and Aron. They Worked. So. Hard. It was 99 outside, with 99% humidity. The sun never fell behind clouds. We had no power, no A/C, and no break from the heat. In the house, it was nearly as hot as outside. When the baby needed a nap, we turned on the van, ran the A/C to cool it down, and Heather held him while he slept.

Everybody worked without a single complaint. They didn't stop smiling, even when the sweat was actually running down their arms in rivulets. A gesture would fling droplets. Brushing up against a door left a wet streak. We were all disgusting and whatever is worse than that.

But the biggest thing I felt was love. My friends showed just how kind and true they were. I actually hadn't known. My default belief is always to think that I like people more than they like me. I can hardly believe people like me, to this day. It is something to work on. These friends showed me then, at what felt like their last opportunity, that they love me, and they love us. It was precious. Once again, leaving felt unimageinable.

But the house was under contract. The next day, it wouldn't be ours. And another one in Michigan was waiting for our signature. The grounds were waiting for children. The rooms were waiting to be ours. Sixty acres (60!) wanted to know what was next for them. That thing we had been saying for so long ... "We need to move to the country..." It was happening. Beyond measure.

The drive took two days. We slept in Iowa. We drove some more. We would have extended it into a third day except for the belief that a calf had escaped from my parents' fields. We pushed it and made it home around 1 a.m.

After two weeks at my parents' house, we finally moved into our own. Every day, something else happens here to make it more our house, and our home. It's noisy. It's energetic! It's huge. It's a blessing so big, I can hardly take it in. We expected to move to a few acres; maybe 10. In a small house. Not this - this huge Victorian farmhouse on a very large piece of property. This is a dream that I can actually see when I'm awake. A blessing I can now study in great detail. I hope I never stop seeing the beauty here. I hope I never forget how much I craved being home in my neck of the woods, next to my parents. And I hope I never forget that there are real friends in Kansas City, who love me the way I am. Enormous blessings in both places.

Lest we forget.

Thomas.

I don't have the right words for this.

I'm in awe of my red baby.

He thrills me and delights me and sometimes I still can't believe he's mine.

He is kind. He locks eyes with me, studies my smile, then offers a gentle and deeply intuitive smile back. I can see that it comes from his heart, and not from some giddy impulse.

When I was pregnant with him, two different, unrelated medical professionals told me that he was, and would be, a VERY nice boy. How could they know?

One was a high-risk doctor who carefully studied Thomas via ultrasound. He said "This is a very good boy. I'm telling you now - he's a very good boy inside the womb and he'll be a very good boy outside, too." The other was my chiropractor, who always reads or feels the energy from my body. As she was adjusting me and seeing how my body was responding, she placed her hands on my belly and blurted "Oh, he is such a NICE BOY!! He's a VERY nice boy!"

I don't know. They're just people. But my Thomas is all that they said.

Granted, he's 8 months old. Not a teenager. But he's not fussy. He's not moody. He loves all of us, but particularly​ me. He's happy to play by himself or with my other children - though if he catches sight of me, he'll ask me to come get him. He's big, so I can't hold him as much as he wants, so I often hold him in bed after he's fallen asleep, letting the pillows do the hard work of lifting him up.

I try to take him everywhere I go. We have a great time together almost every time. Once, he got hungry and fussed in Costco. Another time I had to cut a thrifting run short because he got hungry. But that's it. We go places, me and my toy.

He loves food! He still nurses regularly and I had been feeding him a variety of solid foods until March 26, when he had a bad day and blood began appearing in his diapers. Since then we've figured out that he's allergic to something I/we had been eating. I'm on a very restricted diet now - no dairy, soy, wheat, peanuts, tomatoes, citrus or strawberries. He eats only oats, rice, and apple juice. His diapers are a lot better. Still a little green and slimy, but much less blood. I'll wait until he's 1 before testing dairy in his diet or mine.

We truly hope his hair stays red. ❤️ His hair is such a bright orange-red. It's rare, and it feels like everything about this baby is rare. What a blessing. It feels like we won the lottery.

I can't put it into the best words, but I can say:
He's such a gift.
He dazzles me.
He makes my heart squeeze with the sensation of being over-full.
I am so grateful!

ARE YOU KIDDING ME

In the privacy of my bedroom, I tooted. It definitely had an odor and I was glad I was alone. I didn't foresee having guests, but as it turned out, Natalie opened my door and tried to come in. I met her at the door. I didn't know what to say.

"I tooted in here and it doesn't smell good," I said, crouching down to talk quietly to her.  It was very embarrassing to admit, but I didn't want to bar her from the room without explanation.

She smiled. She edged closer into the room. And she sniffed.

"It stinks in here," she said.

Sam appeared, strange smile on his face, nose in the air. He has excellent hearing and he was excited to smell a Mom toot. He didn't back away until his mission was accomplished.

Are you kidding me?! How humiliating! There goes everything.

Natalie's Near-Truths

My Natalie likes to make people happy.

She discovered that words can make people happy and diffuse tough situations.

Yesterday, when she demonstrated that she could put her shirt on by herself - which both excited and saddened me - she said "I can do it myself."

"You don't need me?!" I asked, and she heard some sadness in my voice.

She pulled the shirt over her head and stuck her right arm through the right sleeve.

"Well," she said, "you can help me with this one." She let me guide her left arm through the left sleeve.

Today, shenanigans in the living room earned her a small swat on the bum. She came into the kitchen, where I was, and looked at me in a way that told me something was wrong.

"What happened?" I asked. "Are you hurt?"

"No," she said. "Daddy pank my bum."

"Oh. Did you do something bad?" I asked.

"No," she said. "Daddy did." Expertly ignoring her own misbehavior, she pinned the cause of her distress on her father. Which, from her point of view, was probably accurate.

Natalie is not a liar - she's too young to really grasp the importance of truth. However... She flexes reality until it serves her well. She'll say whatever she thinks is the right answer for me to hear.

Not long ago, she had a red spot on her lip where I'd seen her picking at her skin.

"What happened to your lip?" I asked. "Were you picking at it?"

"No, I think Sam was," she said.

When I told her Sam was probably never picking at her lips, she said nothing. No need to defend herself. A quick answer to deflect correction was​ the obvious choice! No matter if Mom wasn't fooled.

She's a resilient little girl. I adore her and I learn a lot from her. And I have no doubt she will be an excellent, honest woman.

Needs

Let's talk about needs.

Needs are exhausting.

I need to make lunch.

BUT at the same time:
Samuel needs a drink of water. Thomas needs me to hold him. Natalie needs to sit on the counter. Samuel needs a turkey sandwich. Natalie needs to taste what I'm preparing. Samuel needs me to guess what. Thomas needs a nibble of food. Natalie needs to know what's in this cabinet. Samuel needs to know if it is cold outside. Natalie​ needs the pink plate. Samuel needs to kiss my hip. I step on him - SHIT! Someone needs me to answer the phone. Howie needs a kitty treat, certain he'll find one if he laces between my ankles. I step on him - DAMMIT. Samuel needs to know if he can also have pretzels. Natalie needs to tell me she loves me. Samuel needs to tell me he loves me 5,000. Thomas needs me to adjust my grip before he falls.

I need to take deep breaths. (I forget to.) I need to not yell. (I yell.) I need to make lunch. (I can't.)  I need to make lunch!!! I JUST NEED TO MAKE LUNCH; IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK???

I send them to the table. They creep back into the kitchen. I begin to wave arms haphazardly. "Enough! No! I can't!" I wave in all directions to encompass all things. Just in case they've thought of something else.

"No! Get out! Go to Samuel's room and do not come down until I call you!"

I need to make lunch.

SHIIIT.

They see me rolling

Thomas rolled over on my birthday. Three times, from tummy to back. I think it was my birthday present from him. He is my favorite new toy. ❤️

Here's Thomas!

Thomas was born on August 25, the grand finale to a miserable pregnancy that I hated from the start. Though I loved the baby, my mind and body just couldn't stand being pregnant.

The puking was erratic. The SPD began breaking my pelvis at week 16. That lead to back, hip and leg pain and made any kind of exercise impossible. I became allergic to strange things, like pizza. By 30 weeks I began to fantasize about having an emergency C-section. A week or so later I was diagnosed with polyhydramnios - too much amniotic fluid. This enabled me to freak out about all the additional ways I might lose my baby. Could the placenta detach? Could he get strangled by his cord? Could he JUST DIE???! I panicked. Polyhydramnios made my tummy huge and so cumbersome. Rolling over was a joke. Picking up dropped items was for fools. Once it hit the floor, it stayed there until Steve came.

I spent my third trimester sitting on the loveseat. I. Just. Couldn't.

My midwife told me to prepare myself to go overdue - can you BELIEVE her?? - but there was no way I could do that. I tried not to slay her with my eyes. I was certain he'd be out by August 15 and that I'd be able to watch the Rio Olympics while in labor. What a fantastic distraction!

Pretty much on cue, I had bloody show on Saturday, August 13. See? I was right. I told my mom, and she debated beginning her 14-hour drive. She stayed home that night. The next morning I had larger clots, cramping and back pain. Mom hit the road.

By that evening, everything had stopped.

My midwife, Lindsey, was off Monday, buy she asked me to go in to the office that morning. The midwife on duty said I hadn't dilated more and, even worse, that my baby was sideways! What! She immediately scheduled me for an ECV - external cephalic version - to put the baby in head down position. That was supposed to happen three days. Since an ECV can be painful, the plan was to give me an epidural first. After I recovered, they'd send me home to await a spontaneous labor.

Now, I'm not dumb. Of there's an epidural, there needs to be a baby. Ain't no pregnant Carol going to the hospital and getting an epidural without getting a baby. No. They'd have to make it happen. Besides, with all that water, there wasn't any guarantee that my baby wouldn't just revert back to laying sideways.

I was torn - secretly relieved that my wait was over but sad to lose any control over my labor. Plus, my least favorite midwife was going to be the one to deliver my baby that day. Ehhh.

Mom was downright mad. She hated all the interventions and the sudden change in plans. Still on the road, she insisted I call my (fantastic) chiropractor. As soon as Mom pulled in the drive, she and I went to the chiro. Dr. Jessica used the Webster technique to inspire the baby to move. It was painless. I felt the baby move into the head down position as I climbed back into my van to go home.

On Wednesday, an ultrasound confirmed what I'd felt - he was head down! But he was also 10.5 pounds, the technician said.

But where was the labor? I went back to the chiropractor to have her push all the pressure points that can provoke labor. I had hours of contractions that night, but they stopped. Two days later, I went again to my chiropractor with the same demand. I had false labor again that night. And another night. I walked with Mom in the mornings. I'd hear her take phone calls in her room from coworkers. "No baby yet," she'd say, and I'd cringe. How could this be happening? It was a unique anguish - to have had enough signs of labor to get my mother to leave her home and her job but then... Nothing. No baby yet. I felt I'd made a big mistake.

Finally, I woke in the night to potty at 2 a.m. on August 24. I was leaking fluid. It was unmistakably amniotic fluid. I was ecstatic. Contractions came. I sat on the birthing ball. At 4 a.m. I woke my mother. At 5 a.m. I called my midwife. At 7 a.m. everything stopped. I went back to bed.

I went to my regularly scheduled doctor appointment at 11 a.m., having erratic but frequent contractions. My midwife said I was dilated to a 3 and 80℅ effaced. Yay! An ultrasound revealed that the baby was head down. Yay! A bulging sac of water was under his head, getting squeezed with each contraction. Because of the polyhydramnios and the risk that the baby could trap the cord under his head, they wanted my water to break in the hospital. That way they could monitor his heart rate and avert disaster if it came. Lindsey declared me in labor and sent me to the hospital. My contractions became much more painful.

Throughout my pregnancy, Lindsey promised third babies come quickly and this would be a speedy labor. I fully believed her. Why not?

After three hours of laboring in the hospital, in and out of the tub, I let the attending midwife, Jamie, break my water. My labor intensified again and moved into my back. That was excruciating. Three hours later, midwife-in-training Marie checked me and said...

"She's a 3, and 80% effaced."

Nothing could have been more discouraging. All those hours of labor?! WITH NO CHANGE???!

I gave in. I demanded an epidural, and fast. I got one, and the pain left. My body shook on and off for hours. I had to receive fluids to keep my blood pressure up. Eventually I was a 4, then a 6, then I hung around at 8 for a while. It was dark outside. Nurses changed shifts. I ate Tums like crazy and sipped water. So thirsty!

At 11 p.m. my body was finally ready to push the baby out. Of course, another laboring mom was already pushing at that time, so the midwives were not available. I waited thirty minutes.

When my turn came, I pushed with all my might and felt no change at all. Again and again... Nothing. And again. Suddenly I stopped mid-push because it felt like there was air in my tummy. I thought I might burp? Within minutes I was puking, rejecting all my Tums and precious sips of water.

"Don't worry," my midwife said. "That's very effective pushing."

Finally the baby was crowning. FINALLY!!! Jamie said he had red hair. Not possible! I was sure she was wrong. We worked carefully then to push out his head without causing any tearing. When his head came out I was watching in the mirror. It. Was. Huge.

Thomas was born at 12:30 in the morning. I cried and rejoiced. During my miserable pregnancy, I'd decided that the first hour after he was born would belong solely to me. I didn't want him washed or weighed or wrapped. I just wanted him. They allowed me to hold him for 2.5 hours while my epidural wore off. Even Steve didn't ask for a turn. When I offered to share the baby, he said no - I should keep holding him.

It was heaven.

When I let them take him, he weighed in at 9 pounds, 9.9 ounces. He was 20 1/2 inches long. And yes, his hair was red.

And that's the story of how nine terrible months ended with 22 hours of labor and gave me the cutest, happiest red-headed baby the world could imagine. I LOVE him.